“Steel armor inlaid with silver—­blue scarf across his breast, embroidered with his cognizance in gold—­blue plume, which no English sword hath ever soiled—­humph! that’s reserved for me—­charger white as the snow on the ground—­sits his steed as man and horse were one.  Well, gloriously well, there will be no lack of glory here!” he said, joyously, as one by one he slowly enumerated the symbols by which he might recognize his foe.  So expeditiously had Hereford conducted his well-arranged plans, that when his council was over, it still wanted two hours to dawn, and these Hereford commanded the men who had accompanied him to pass in repose.

But he himself partook not of this repose, passing the remainder of the darkness in carefully reviewing the forces which were still fresh and prepared for the onset, in examining the nature of the engines, and finally, still aided by the noise of the howling winds, marshalled them in formidable array in very front of the barbacan, the heavy mist thrown onward by the blasts effectually concealing their near approach.  To Lancaster the command of this party was intrusted; Hereford reserving to himself the desirable yet delicate task of surveying the ground, confident that the attack on the barbacan would demand the whole strength and attention of the besieged, and thus effectually cover his movements.

His plan succeeded.  A fearful shout, seconded by a tremendous discharge of huge stones, some of which rattled against the massive walls in vain, others flying across the moat and crushing some of the men on the inner wall, were the first terrific sounds which unexpectedly greeted the aroused attention of the Scotch.  The armor of their foes flashing through the mist, the furious charge of the knights up to the very gates of the barbacan, seemingly in sterner and more compact array than of late had been their wont, the immense body which followed them, appearing in that dim light more numerous than reality, struck a momentary chill on the Scottish garrison; but the unwonted emotion was speedily dissipated by the instant and unhesitating sally of Sir Christopher Seaton and his brave companions.  The impetuosity of their charge, the suddenness of their appearance, despite their great disparity of numbers, caused the English a moment to bear back, and kept them in full play until Nigel and his men-at-arms, rushing over the lowered drawbridge, joined in the strife.  A brief, very brief interval of fighting convinced both the Scottish leaders that a master-spirit now headed their foes; that they were struggling at infinitely greater odds than before; that unity of purpose, greater sagacity, and military skill were now at work against them, they scarce knew wherefore, for they recognized the same war-cry, the same banners; there were the same gallant show of knights, for in the desperate melee it was scarcely possible to distinguish the noble form of Lancaster from his fellows, although